


Our Man in Africa (Stinger Scenes)

by witling



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Banter, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Teasing, authorial self-indulgence, fatigue, straw men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 06:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4736549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witling/pseuds/witling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re in Arthur’s bed, making out furiously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Man in Africa (Stinger Scenes)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Our Man in Africa](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1924179) by [witling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/witling/pseuds/witling). 



> You know how movies sometimes have little extra scenes in the credits, for the folks who stick around? That's what these are. AKA Hard Drive Amnesty, for Our Man in Africa. Complete foolishness--sex, banter, fatigue. Leftover parts and pieces. I don't even know if they work correctly in this order. You're welcome!
> 
> Warning: there is a dude in one of these snippets who makes sexist, racist, and homophobic comments. But nobody likes him.

They’re in Arthur’s bed, making out furiously. There are already condoms and lube on the mattress beside them—Arthur got them out in a matter-of-fact way and tossed them there first thing. Now when Eames opens his eyes and glimpses them he feels a rush of heat to his face and cock. Arthur needs this, he thinks.

They grind for a while, making the bed springs creak alarmingly. Then somehow Eames has Arthur’s leg up, his knee to his shoulder, his body twisted open like a fruit. Arthur’s panting, flushed in the face. He gropes for the lube, passing it over. Eames gets a gob of the stuff in his hand and strokes it up the seam of Arthur’s ass. One thumb inside, rubbing. Arthur arches, then makes a startled whuffing sound and readjusts.

“Okay?” Eames backs off, mindful of the bruises. It’s only been a couple of days.

“Yeah.” Arthur moves his elbow gingerly, trying a new leverage point on the mattress. “Fine. Just—maybe go easy this time.” He looks at Eames quickly, from under his brows.

It stabs Eames with tenderness. Arthur, who’s always wanted it hard. Asking for it to be gentle. Shamefaced about it.

Eames pushes him down and consumes his mouth with big wet messy kisses, ignoring his token pushback, hardly letting him breathe. At the same time fingering him, making it slow and gentle and teasing. Holding him down with superior weight when he tries to roll over and hurry things along. Keeping him on his back, exposed like this, face to face with Eames’s fingers inside him, Eames’s cock brushing his thighs and belly but not pushing inside him. Driving him mad. Annoying him, probably.

“I’m going—“ Cut off by kisses. “Jesus—“ More kisses. “Fuck—“

When he finally tears open the packet and rolls on a condom, Eames is fairly sure he won’t last more than a minute or two. Arthur’s sweat-slick and flushed, grabbing at him. But Eames keeps it slow, impossibly slow. Easing in only to pull back out again. His head pounding, his muscles trembling. In a little more, then out.

“Jesus,” Arthur gasps. “Jesus, yeah, fuck—“

By the time Eames is fully inside, Arthur’s not talking at all anymore. He’s staring up at Eames with bottomless eyes, breathing hard through chapped lips. Eames lets his full weight settle.

Arthur’s eyes close. He makes an ah-ah-ah sound.

Eames is right, he doesn’t last more than a minute like that. But neither does Arthur.

Later, they’re pooled on separate sides of the bed because the windows are open and the air is hot and humid. Arthur slurs, one slow word at a time: “You’ve got to be _kidding_ me.”

Eames laughs.

 

*****

 

He gets out of the shower, scrubbed and shaved. There’s a message on his phone, but the line is bad. At first he can hardly make it out. Then it comes together, more or less.

“—Jonathina in Dar. –for Mr. Eames. –possible future. –can travel.” She leaves a Dar es Salaam phone number.

He’s still smiling with the phone to his ear when Arthur comes in. A cup of coffee in his hand, wearing boxer briefs. Still walking stiffly, but lighter somehow. Three days of sex will do that.

Eames puts the phone down. Arthur looks at it.

“Jonathina,” he guesses. Eames gives him a sideways look.

“Right on time,” Arthur sighs, reaching for his razor.

“She did good work.”

“She went off script.”

“And saved both our hides.”

Arthur flips on the hot water and leans into the mirror, inspecting the bruise below his ear. “If you want to be responsible for her, be my guest.”

“Like Cobb was responsible for you?”

Arthur looks sour.

“Protegées can be handy,” Eames says. “You never know when you’ll need someone to return a favor for you.”

 

*****

 

His first flight is delayed, then cancelled. The second one is oversold. There’s an interminable period of negotiation, culminating in a harassed service person offering two thousand dollars to anyone willing to surrender their seat.

“That’s a good deal,” the woman next to Eames says. She’s been trying to catch his eye for the last hour. He gives her a humorless smile and goes back to his book.

It’s Christ o’clock when he pulls up through the slush in front of the Wicker Park house. The porch light is on, and the light under the eaves, Arthur’s bedroom light. They have a tacit agreement to meet here and there when they aren’t working, in Chicago or Rio or wherever is convenient. No leanings toward joint tenancy. Still, Eames feels a particular tremor of anticipation when he’s headed to Chicago. 

He does have his own key. He lets himself into the dark, silent house and stands for a moment in the foyer. It smells familiar now.

He stamps snow off his boot and goes to drink a glass of water in the kitchen. When he turns he finds Arthur standing in the doorway. He’s cut his hair short, and grown a scruff of beard. He’s wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts. He looks college-aged.

“It’s four o’clock in the morning,” he says, squinting at the time on the stove. “What happened?”

“British Airlines.” Eames peels off his jacket and dumps it on the nearest chair, wincing at the stiffness and the smell. “I parked out front. Will they tow me?”

Arthur shakes his head. “There’s pizza in the fridge.”

“Lovely.”

They sit on the sofa drinking beer and eating horrible reheated Chicago-style pizza.

“What happened to your hair?” Eames asks.

“Job,” Arthur says, but nothing more. He looks half-asleep, even while he’s chewing. “How’d it go with Lucan?”

“As well as it ever does.”

“Did you hit him?”

“I never would.” The hand he’s drinking with is red-knuckled, and he knows Arthur’s seen it. Arthur’s hit Lucan before too. Lucan is a git.

“I was thinking,” Arthur says, still ruminating. “About Greece.”

“Greece?”

“It’s hot there. I’ve been working cold for months.”

“It’s hot in Mombasa.”

“Not Mombasa.”

“What have you got against Mombasa?”

“It’s full of people like you.”

Eames ponders. “Cyprus.”

“No, somewhere normal.”

“Only parts of it are disputed.”

“Maybe Portugal.” Arthur isn’t listening, he’s fingering his pizza crust and imagining—probably—a highly precise map of the world, color-coded by climate. “Or Croatia.”

“What kind of job makes you cut your hair?” Eames asks. “Not that you don’t look lovely.”

Arthur side-eyes him.

“You look like a hipster twink,” Eames says. “I’m not complaining, I can work with it. It’s just a little startling.”

Arthur gives him a longer look, his eyes more alert, as if he’s just noticed that Eames is sitting on his sofa. Then he sets down his beer bottle, scoots down the sofa, and shoves his bare feet under Eames’s leg. He has strong, prehensile toes. Eames winces.

“It’s a lovely haircut,” he says. “I don’t know what I was saying.”

“You’ve gained weight,” Arthur says. “Since we’re making personal comments.”

“Samosas.”

“You look good, though.” Arthur’s toes are goosing him, wiggling up under his crotch and teasing him through his trousers. “I’m glad you made it. Even though I have to work in three hours.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Eames checks his watch, then sighs and puts his bottle down and hauls Arthur in by his ankles.

 

*****

 

In Greece, in a room with a brilliant blue view out the open balcony windows, in a bed with white sheets. Eames is face down on his knees, Arthur is fucking him. His belly curved to the base of Eames’s spine, his hands clambering over Eames’s shoulders. His hips working hard and fast.

It burns and it feels incredible and they almost never do it this way, Arthur pitching. It’s not usually their thing. But this time, the light and the cool ocean breeze moving through the room, Arthur thrusting into him, making helpless sounds—this time Eames feels his whole body start to short out, his cock starting to stiffen in midair.

“Fuck, yeah,” Arthur says, grabbing his shoulders and driving into him. “Fuck, Eames—God—“

And then his hips start a quick, animal pulse and he drops belly-first onto Eames’s back, clutching him. “I love—Jesus—fuck—“ Eames doesn’t hear the rest.

After, Arthur lies breathing open-mouthed, staring at the stuccoed wall above the bed. He lifts a hand and puts two fingers on the wall. He seems to be pondering something.

Eames thinks of several things he could say, but none of them seem worthwhile. He pulls a pillow over his head and rolls over into sleep.

 

*****

 

“Fucking Jew York,” Culver says, hauling his bags through the door. “Fucking fifty-eight-dollar cab fare, Jesus Christ. Where’s my setup?”

“Hey Eames,” he says later, leaning over from his work table, sandwich in one hand. “How come going to Subway’s like prostitution?” Eames says nothing. “Because you pay a stranger to do your girlfriend’s job.”

“Yusuf?” It’s afternoon now. He frowns, as if recalling a bad memory. “Yeah, I know him. He’s the raghead, right?”

“I am going to kill this man,” Solveig says. It’s late evening, Culver’s long gone. The three of them are standing around the open refrigerator, sharing the two remaining beers. “I am going to kill him, Arthur. I swear.”

“He’s a good chemist.” But Arthur doesn’t look convinced. “We need a good chemist.”

“There are other chemists,” Eames reminds him.

“Nobody good enough. Not on short notice.” Arthur takes the beer from Eames and swigs. “We’re done tomorrow at one. Just...nobody kill him until we’re done.”

“Do you know he told me to buy him coffee?” Solveig sounds amazed. “To stop what I am doing, to put down my pen, to run downstairs and buy him coffee. I think this man is the missing link.”

“You can kill him when we’re done,” Arthur says. “Just wait until we have the data.”

The next day, Culver sticks his square, good-looking face in Eames’s and says, “Hey Eames.”

Eames doesn’t respond. 

“Hey Eames. How do you make a fag scream twice?”

“Fuck him in the arse, wipe your dick on his curtains.” Eames sits back in his chair, his hands resting on his thighs. “What time is it?”

Culver looks at his watch. “Eleven.”

“Two hours, then.”

“Two hours what?”

Eames smiles and goes back to his folders.

They do the job.

When it’s finished, Eames packs his kit up, locks it away in the trunk of his car, and walks back upstairs to the setup floor. Solveig passes him on her way out, walking briskly with her portfolio case over her shoulder.

“Good-bye Mr. Eames,” she says over her shoulder. “Next time I hope the company will be better.”

Culver’s still packing away his samples. On the other side of the room, Arthur is wrapping up his laptop. He watches Eames from beneath his eyebrows. His expression is discouraging. Eames pretends not to notice it. 

“Eames.” Arthur raises his chin, summoning. “Can I talk to you?”

“In a minute.”

“I need you to look at some routing numbers.” Arthur’s brandishing his phone, clearly poised to intercept if necessary. Eames hesitates. “And the percentages for the distribution.”

“I’m outie,” Culver said, hoisting his kit over his shoulder. “Adios, muchachos.” He starts for the door, then pauses and comes back. “Hey, listen.” 

They both look at him. 

“I think maybe I said some stuff that bugged you guys,” Culver says. “I get kind of amped up on jobs, you know? I didn’t mean to piss you off.”

Eames gives him the thinnest of smiles. “I didn't notice.”

“Anyway, I just wanted you to know, I’m not against anyone. I don’t care if you’re black or Mexican or normal or what. I like everyone the same. And I’ll work with you guys anytime.”

He sketches a little wave and goes out. There’s a long silence. Eames turns to Arthur, who’s wearing a frown of something like puzzlement.

“I...” Arthur shakes his head. “I have no idea what to say.”

“Say you’ll make a call to the IRS tips line.”

Arthur tucks his phone away, still gazing at the door Culver left through. “Mexican or...normal?”

“Solveig will be disappointed if you leave him any disposable income.”

“I’d hate to disappoint Solveig.”

Later that night, disheveled and grinning on the hotel suite sofa, Eames pokes Arthur in the shoulder. “How do you make a faggot scream twice, darling?” Arthur jerks an elbow back into his solar plexus, winding him.


End file.
